


Peaks of Grace

by flannelcastiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drabble, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 12:41:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flannelcastiel/pseuds/flannelcastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The confession did not consist of those three words Castiel longed to hear, but it was good enough.</p>
<p>This drabble takes place in a random place, a random time, in which safety is at the forefront of both Dean's and Cas' minds. Except, there is nothing platonic about the lengths Castiel would take to protect Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peaks of Grace

The confession did not consist of those three words Castiel longed to hear, but it was good enough.

There was a time when he was a faithful being, whose mission was to serve and whose passion was to please. Though he fell from his graceful high to the pitiless grounds of Earth, to watch and not be watched, so see and never be seen. Until the insubstantial little human saw him, and saw right through him.

The tower which was Babylon crumbled under the weight of his own trespasses Castiel’s sin. For he did so in the name of his Father, the one who cradled him from a distance, let him flounder helplessly in the dirty mess which he created time and time again.

Dean Winchester, a human of little consequence, lay in the dirt of the cruel world beside him. A time once existed in which he breathed and prayed on the word of Man’s grace, though many angels were transparent in such beliefs. After all, they were molded from clay, mere dirt, even if by the hand of their own creators.

Dean Winchester, was a sculpture, something carved from divine sediment and blown to delicate perfection like a glass token. Each embellishment, each scar, only made him more tangible. Perhaps it was the realism embodied by the man that endeared him, made him a treasure.

Though it was not just his being that was treasured by the angel, but the words that fell from his lips.

It was a slow burn, the rate at which they flowed from his cracked lips—a dangerously slow burn that threatened to incinerate his empty chest, his limbs, his vessel. Deans fingers started at his own, tips playing on tips before their hands were suddenly intertwined. Like a knot, an implicit bond which illustrated Castiel’s pure dedication to preserve the man, protect his being.

“I’ll always watch over you, Dean,” Castiel murmured bellow his breath, a breath he could barely spare at risk of asphyxiating on his own his own desperation. Dean nodded, acknowledging the angel’s promise.

“If—if I were stronger, I’d watch over you, too.” At that small statement, confession, Castiel’s brows furrowed. Could the man possibly long to protect an angel, conserve his grace from an inexistant threat? There were few beings who could bring an angel from his throne, incinerate his grace like a smothered flame. Dean did not have to worry about that. Why did he worry?

“You needn’t save me, Dean Winchester.” Castiel squeezed his fingers, and then raised them to his lips. He heard Dean inhale quickly, unaccustomed to the touch.

“But I have to,” Dean murmured back, and the knot of their hands broke. Castiel almost shattered then, thought that rejection was before him. Though the fleeting fear lasted half a moment, because Dean’s fingers were suddenly knotting themselves in his disheveled hair. Their foreheads pressed together, breaths mixing, lips almost touching but not even close.

Castiel shut his eyes and pressed the softest of kisses against those chapped lips—and it burned. He had touched the sun, for God’s touch was a million times stronger, and still he couldn’t imagine a deeper more significant burn. This was love: touchable, tangible, conceivable. How he loved this human—he’d fall from grace ten times over, or rise to the peaks of the highest, least climbable mountain top in order to preserve the broken pieces that were left. Anything—that is what he would do.

Three words were not needed to convey his love for the seemingly inconsequential human.

Though, four would suffice.

“You’ve already saved me,” Castiel whispered against Dean’s lips. A kiss ended, and neither of them asked for more, yet they both yearned to steal the stars. To act would be a crime, to deny one another would be a sin against God himself—why else would he have given Castiel the ability to love if not to love a righteous man?


End file.
